


The Distaff Alliance

by Caiti (Caitriona_3)



Series: A Hobbit's Tale [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Multi, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3970438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitriona_3/pseuds/Caiti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the Fellowship of the Ring has echoed throughout history with its tales of heroism and sacrifice...but has the entire story been told?  Have we even received the correct story?  The fates of so many interweave into such a complicated web...small changes cause the world to be rearranged.  A few threads rearranged...and now a new path opens.  For better?  For worse?  Only time can tell.</p><p>(Please, please read the notes!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS IN STORY! (If you haven’t seen the movie, read the book, or been inundated with ‘what happened’ – you will get hit with some spoilers here.)
> 
> Also - I am playing merry havoc with canon details and dates, mixing book and movie ideas, adding some of my own, the birth dates of several characters have changed, and I am pretty much ignoring the canon deaths of BotFA because none of the above exactly fit with my story idea. The Hobbit storyline went the same basic way as the movies – except for those deaths that I’m not acknowledging. (Should I ever get it all together, I will put a timeline in here somewhere and you can laugh yourself silly at how much I’ve rearranged things. Hopefully the good Professor will be too amused at my audacity to be unhappy with me.)
> 
>  
> 
> **If you want canon – this is NOT the place to be. May I direct you to some lovely work done by a most respectable author under the name of J.R.R. Tolkien? Trust me – you’ll love his work.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cover Art for The Distaff Alliance + casting choices

[ ](http://imgur.com/0fGHEEJ)

  
[](http://imgur.com/BkHvP1M)

[](http://imgur.com/wQgMDef) [](http://imgur.com/c2cSvui)

[](http://imgur.com/OhOIJrk) [](http://imgur.com/wKNPXSW)

[](http://imgur.com/7x8whxk) [](http://imgur.com/i7BSkZF)  



	2. The World Has Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Galadriel has always kept watch over the West. Now she watches those who have the power to change the fates of all.

_Lothlórien – Cermië 3018 of the Third Age_

“The world is changed.”

Galadriel’s voice drifted through the empty clearing as she peered in her mirror. She kept a careful eye over the free peoples of Middle Earth; in particular she watched those who would affect great changes on the world and the ever-present struggle between good and evil. Each change would create new patterns, new paths, and new choices. Despite the constant changes brought by the free will of all free Peoples, rare came the times that caught her by surprise. And yet – now came the third instance in a short window of time. 

Three times within a hundred years an unanticipated action by an unexpected player caused the flow of events to move in a new direction.

The first occurred when Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire, rearranged the fates of his companions with his bravery and his refusal to hold a grudge. His efforts saved the line of Durin and King Thorin ruled Erebor with a stern, but steady hand. More – Bilbo’s efforts led to a strong alliance between the three kings of Erebor, Dale, and the Greenwood. While they might never be more than cautious friends, such an alliance had not been imagined prior to the unusual Hobbit’s intervention.

Fate changed yet again when that same Hobbit passed a test all others thus far had failed. He gave up the One Ring of his own free will. Galadriel shared Elrond’s grief and anger over Isildur’s refusal to destroy the Ring when he stood in the heart of Mt. Doom, but she offered no judgment. She had yet to face that test. Until then she would not claim any such authority. It said much of Bilbo that he took so little hurt from his possession, but his desire for peace, his willingness to offer pity…they shielded him in a way no one could have expected.

Now, for the third time, the path of the world reordered itself. 

Her mirror rippled and brought up the lovely face of a woman, a female of the Race of Men. Power rested light on her shoulders, though her eyes held a haunted look. Her mother’s fire-gold hair tumbled in waves around a solemn face set with the silver gray eyes of her father. Galadriel knew her – she had watched this one born, watched as the girl-child grew into her majority, raised by her uncle, unknown to her father.

What would he say, Galadriel wondered, when he learned she kept his daughter a secret? And her brother as well? Twin-born and twin-bonded, the two of them moved through Galadriel’s sight like smoke. Each of them possessed the full might and gifts of their heritage, making them difficult to read, even for her.

Lothíriel and Faramir, children of the line of Elros, shared their father’s eyes – and each suffered for their heritage. 

Their mother’s jealous husband separated them at birth, keeping the boy for reasons unknown while banishing the girl from his sight. Perhaps he expected the truth that had long since come to pass – with the exception of their eyes, both children took after their mother. Lothíriel in particular looked a great deal like Finduilas. The thought must have torn at Denethor after Finduilas’ death – the ability to see an image of his beloved wife in the girl always being offset by his fury at seeing another man’s eyes staring back at him.

Galadriel watched as the girl rode with her uncle up to the citadel. The Elf stretched forth her hand in benediction. “May the Valar guide your steps, child of the sea. And may we meet one day when time and tide bring us to the deciding of the Age.”


	3. The Change Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel creates a change...and the ripples begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should make you aware - sorry for not doing this earlier - that these chapters are going to be more like snapshots that form a chain instead of a flowing story line. Hopefully they still make sense and give you a story to enjoy.

_Minas Tirith – Cermië 3018 of the Third Age_

Lothíriel walked into the gardens, her shoulders relaxing as she drew in a deep breath of the floral air. July meant rising temperatures, but the garden soaked up every bit of sun, blooming and blossoming as if in direct rebellion to the inky shadows of the east. This quiet garden remained the one place in all of the city she felt comfortable being alone. The warmth of the sun, the colors and scents of the blossoms, and the lack of any sound made it an oasis in the heart of this bustling city.

“Always we find you in the gardens,” an amused voice drew out. 

Her eyes swung around and lit with joy as she spotted the two men making their way down the path towards her. Broad smiles graced both of their faces. “Boromir! Faramir!” She darted forward and tossed her arms around both of them.

“Hello, little sister,” Boromir laughed, swinging her around. “We have missed you!”

She shared a quick look with Faramir and they both attacked Boromir’s ticklish spots. The silent garden witnessed the trio dissolve into a cheerful, loving knot of chaos. It took a while for them to get back under control, but thy managed it. 

“So,” Boromir leaned against the stone wall, “what brings you to the city? You do not usually join Uncle on his visits.”

“First,” Lothíriel held up a hand, “I want to know why I have been sensing irritation and anxiety for the past several days.” She shook her head. “I was not surprised at first, because of the siege, but…it has not gone away.” Her eyes focused on her twin’s. “Something is bothering you and I want to know what it is.”

“Dreams,” Faramir replied, his eyes falling closed. 

“A dream,” Boromir corrected. 

The younger man nodded as he opened his eyes once more. “A dream,” he agreed, “repeating itself.” He spread his hands. “I had it the night before Osgiliath, but I thought no more of it after the battle. Then it happened again.”

“What do you dream?” Lothíriel tilted her head. Dreams…their gift and blessing and curse – the images they dreamed rarely remained figments of the mind for the two of them.

“The east filled with storms and the sky turned black. It was not the darkness of the shadows we see now, but darker, deeper, more deadly.” Gray eyes grew distant as Faramir spoke. He seemed to relive the dream in his mind’s eye as he spoke to them and Lothíriel grew more certain that this would remain no mere dream. “Then I turned to the west and the sky blazed with light, a light that grew as I watched. I seemed…caught between the two. As I waited, watching for what I do not know, I heard a voice speaking from the heart of the light.” He paused, looking down to catch his sister’s gaze. “It gave me a riddle.”

“I hate riddles,” Boromir grumbled.

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. “Bor, you are probably the most straightforward man I know and one day you shall be deposed as Steward because the Council cannot survive without its politics…and you cannot survive with them.” He gave her a mock frown, but she turned up her nose with a chuckle. “Politics are all riddles.”

“Which is why Faramir should have the job.” The twins gave him matching looks of pity and he sighed. “I know. Father.” No other word was necessary.

“What about the riddle?” she asked, turning to look at Faramir once more.

He nodded. “It went like this: 

_‟Seek for the Sword that was broken:_  
_In Imladris it dwells;_  
_There shall be counsels taken_  
_Stronger than Morgul-spells._  
_There shall be shown a token_  
_That Doom is near at hand,_  
_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_  
_And the Halfling forth shall stand”_

Lothíriel’s eyes went wide and she felt herself sway as the words shot images through her mind. History, myth, legend – they played out before her eyes, eclipsing the garden and her brothers, overtaking her sight.

“Lotti!” Two distant male voices grew deep with concern and strong hands guided her to a hard surface, pushing her to sit. 

Part of her mind recognized the stone. It must be one of the many stone benches dotting the garden, but that seemed at one remove, unreal in the world she watched. A dark-haired man, the image of the statue of Isildur, swung a broken sword and cut the fingers off the hand of Sauron. A shudder went through her as she watched all that followed. Horror filled her as she watched the body of Isildur floating face down in the waters.

Colors swirled, making her all but blind until they settled once more. A new face appeared before her – a face familiar from previous dreams, but more than that she knew his eyes. She saw them every time she looked in the mirror. Her breath caught.

The shudder turned into a shake as someone grabbed her shoulders. “Lotti!”

The vision disappeared into smoke and she found herself blinking into Boromir’s concerned face. “The final battle…it is coming.”

Boromir’s lips tightened as his fingers flexed. He released her and strode away, fists clenched at his side. In a movement just as abrupt he turned back. “Are you sure?”

“Doom is near at hand,” she repeated. “The doom of choice – for good or ill, it is coming.”

“What did you see?” Faramir’s quiet question drew their attention. His eyes never wavered from her face. “You saw something – something that let you understand.”

“I saw the Last Alliance,” she managed to breathe out. Her brothers froze and she continued. “I saw the battle on the slopes and Isildur’s final battle. I saw him take a gold ring from Sauron…he kept it.” A flare of pain flickered in her face. “It led him to his death.”

“Isildur’s Bane,” Faramir nodded.

“And the shards of Narsil,” she added. “He used it to fight – Elendil’s sword, broken and shattered in battle. The hilt still held a good portion, long enough and sharp enough to do what needed to be done.”

The brothers exchanged a look. Boromir gave a slow nod. “Father said Imadris is the old name for Rivendell, the home of Elrond Half-Elven.” Lothíriel waited a moment before lifting her eyebrows in question, but he only shrugged. “That is all he would say.”

She stared at them, her eyes shifting from one to the other. “And what did you decide?” They frowned at each other and she pushed herself between them, making them look at her. “What did you decide?” she demanded.

“We have not yet made a decision,” Faramir replied.

Boromir drew himself up. “Yes we have. I am going.”

“The dream came to me.”

“And I am the elder,” Gondor’s Captain General insisted.

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. “And I am the long-suffering sister,” she muttered. “Both of you must go.”

“What?”

The word seemed louder, deeper with both of them speaking at once, but she held her hand up to prevent the brewing argument from boiling over. “I do not say that lightly,” she told them, her voice softening with worry. “You both have to go.”

“Why?” Boromir stared at her, still her older brother, but every inch of him radiating his authority as the military leader of Gondor. 

“The Eagle awaits,” she replied, her lips curving into a tiny smile. “They will need your support,” she told Boromir before turning to Faramir, “but they will need your level-headedness more.”

“Puts me in my place,” her eldest brother huffed and she pulled herself up to kiss his cheek. He shook his head, before wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The men exchanged a long speaking look and then Boromir straightened. He planted a kiss on top of Lothíriel’s head and then stepped back. “We need to go,” he insisted. “Now – before Father gets out of the council meeting. We can gather supplies at one of the garrisons on our way.”

Faramir gave a nod and then turned to her. He pulled her into a fierce hug. “Be careful, Lotti,” he warned. “He will blame you.”

“I will not be here.” They stopped and looked at her, but she shook her head. “Just go. You have to be too far along for him to stop you or pull you back.” She paused. “Boromir….when the time for the decision comes, listen to Faramir’s instincts and not yours. Your first instinct will be wrong.”

Lothíriel watched as her brothers rode away from the city. It worried her, watching them ride into a future she could not see, but she knew they had to go. Gondor needed to be there and only those two possessed the authority to speak for Gondor as well as the position to face down Denethor if he argued. If Boromir remembered to swallow his pride, then maybe…

No, she would not think on it for now. She would trust him – he would never disappoint her.

“Are you still leaving?”

“I must,” she replied, turning to face her adopted father. He looked unhappy, but she shook her head. “We have been through this.”

“I know.” Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth sighed in disappointment. “It does not mean I have to like it.”

“I know.”

For just a moment, Lothíriel let herself rest against his side. She would be leaving in a moment, but for a breath of time she wanted to remember being a little girl who thought this man could fix everything. “I will be careful.” 

“Good.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “May the light ever be with you.”

She managed a final smile for him. “May the Valar guide us all.”


	4. Questions in Hobbiton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie Cotton might be a lot of things, but blind and stupid were not among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These updates will slow down once I've caught up with myself, but I don't want to overlook something.

_Hobbiton – Narquelië 3018 of the Third Age_

Rosie Cotton gave an exasperated sigh as she found yet another mug tucked into one of the wall carvings. Why her fellow Hobbits could not use the tables or benches that she placed in various intervals along that selfsame wall escaped her. Then again – drunk Hobbits…she supposed she should be glad they did not walk out of the tavern with mugs firmly in hand. And then there were the Hobbits who got caught up in discussing this or that bit of gossip or family history. An Oliphant could wander through and go unnoticed. It made her clean up a bit of a scavenger hunt every single night. 

She enjoyed a good scavenger hunt, but only when the prize made the effort worthwhile.

The inventory took her just as long as she had expected, and Rosie did not leave the Green Dragon until almost dawn. She didn’t mind. It was her day off and she could be as lazy as she liked. Even her parents would not bother her for help around the smial, knowing good and well how difficult inventory could be on a good day. Inventory turned into a bit of a nightmare on busy nights – and last night the tavern filled to capacity. Though that should have been expected the second Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck stepped into the room. The folks of Hobbiton would crowd in whenever those two troublemakers came to town. They could be guaranteed a show of some kind – and last night’s singing escapades lived up to their reputation. She gave a brief laugh as she stepped outside, locking the door behind her. Her life was almost full – family, friends, work, and a variety of entertainments around every corner.

Now if only she could get Samwise Gamgee to do more than just look at her! Would a simple conversation be too much to ask?

The air outside felt colder than she expected. September bought cooler temperatures, but something about this night felt deeper than that. She could swear she heard a voice on the wind, a fell voice seeking for something lost, something precious…something secret.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Rosie huffed, giving herself a good shake. Her chin went up and she began the walk to her family’s smial. “What foolishness!”

And if her footsteps hurried along at a faster clip than normal? Well…there was no one about to see or take note.

Then movement caught her eye and she came to a stop. Three shadowy figures moved in the pre-dawn light. A tall figure with a hat led two Hobbits into the woods. Although the shadows hid their faces, Rosie knew every Hobbit in Hobbiton and Bywater thanks to her work. If that wasn’t Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee, she’d eat her Aunt Petunia’s daisy hat. 

Now why were they following that fellow out of town? And who was that…? Her eyes narrowed as she considered the hat once more. She rolled her eyes. Oh, of course – who else could it be? Gandalf the Gray – disturber of the peace – seemed to be up to his old tricks again. It had been almost eighty years since he drew old Bilbo Baggins off on a crazy adventure, but now Frodo? Was it the Took blood?

Unlike many, Rosie adored Bilbo Baggins and never begrudged the elder Baggins his eccentricities. After all – had not those very oddities been the saving of herself and several other Hobbit children twenty-seven years ago when the second Fell Winter held the Shire in its deadly thrall? While she might have been practically a babe in arms at the time, Rosie could still remember the long ride, the tall mountain, and the Dwarves who called it home. In all of the conversations she shared with Mr. Bilbo, he promised her – Gandalf only moved people when necessary, that he only did it to make things better in the end.

Even if it got darker before the dawn.

Watching the three figures disappear into the tree line, she could only wonder and worry.

What now?

That thought came back to haunt her over the next few days as rumors began to fly throughout town. Some people claimed Frodo and Sam decided to go find Frodo’s uncle for some inheritance question while others joked about Frodo cracking like Mr. Bilbo and running off with Sam chasing after him for his own good. The discussion and arguments began to get quite ludicrous, only to grow worse when people learned that both Pippin and Merry were missing as well.

Ted Sandyman finally spouted off with his opinion. “Makes perfect sense to me,” he pontificated to his fellows one night in the tavern. “Frodo is cracked, just like Old Mad Baggins. Merry and Pippin? Those little thieves are just trying to avoid Farmer Maggot and Gamgee’s probably chasing off after Elves or something.”

Old Gaffer Gamgee began to puff up, his face turning a worrisome shade of red, and Rosie decided enough was enough. She hauled an old step-stool around and used it to climb on top of the bar. One thick wooden spoon beat against the side of a large soup tureen lid drew everyone’s attention to her. If she had not been quite so irritated, it might have amused her to watch their jaws drop open in shock and their eyes grow wide in consternation. She put the spoon and lid down before staring her neighbors down.

“Now that I’ve got your attention?” Her eyes snapped with a blaze of fury as they swept through the room and met as many people’s gaze as she could manage. “I have had more than enough of the gossip and the innuendoes being tossed through the air about a couple of perfectly respectable Hobbits. Mr. Baggins and young Mr. Gamgee have never been one whit less than polite, affable, and hard-working. I will have you know, here and now, anyone speaking out against either Hobbit will be asked to vacate the premises immediately. This is your only warning.” Her hands moved to plant themselves on her hips. “Once I send you off, you can rest assured that neither yourself nor your business will be welcome to return to the Green Dragon until I am satisfied you have learned your lesson and gotten your head back on straight.” She gave the room one more disdainful look. “Am I clear?”

Mumbles and murmurs of stunned agreement filled the air. She gave a nod before climbing down. Her father appeared next to her and wiped the counter with a damp cloth. A broad smile graced his face as he gave her a wink. “That’s my good, strong girl. You tell them, Rosie-lass.”

“Thanks, Da.”

A couple more days passed and new rumors appeared, drawing people’s attention away from the four missing Hobbits. More Elves than ever were spotted making their way through the Shire, all of them moving towards the West. Dwarves and Rangers grew more cautious, going armed even among peaceful folk, and they gave warnings to the Bounders about growing numbers of wolves and other less savory types. The families living on the borders start locking their doors by night and keeping their children close by day. The air grows a little heavier.

“I would swear another fell one was coming if the heat wasn’t clinging so,” claimed more than one of the elders.

Then a new story began to darken their days. Black riders had been spotted in the Shire, even in Hobbiton. Rosie would have written the entire thing off as a nightmare brought about by the rest except for Farmer Maggot’s story. He’d seen one, conversed with it even, though he threatened to set his dogs on the rider. His description drew shivers – a man-shape cloaked all in black, no face to be seen, with a hissing voice – but Rosie’s blood froze when he told them what the stranger wanted. 

Or rather, _who_ the stranger seemed to want.

Baggins.

She spent the rest of the night working in a haze. Her actions and comments became absent-minded as she focused on turning over the information in her mind. Gandalf leads Frodo and Sam out of town just before the warnings from the borders start to grow and then they get a visit from such a dark stranger? Rosie never believed in coincidences anyway, and this only strengthened that opinion.

“Something’s wrong, Da,” she told her father the next morning. “Something bad is happening outside the Shire.”

“True enough, lass,” he agreed, but lifted one bushy eyebrow. “But is it our nevermind? We shouldn’t go sticking our noses into other people’s business.”

“We’re not,” she pointed out. “The dark rider came here. The Elves are passing through here. If the Dwarves and the Rangers are giving us warning, then it’s because they expect more potential trouble to come here.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “If there’s going to be trouble, then I’d rather have some warning than be hit over the head like a Bracegirdle who’s three sheets to the wind.”

“Listen to you,” her mother scolded. “Talking like some Brandybuck with their oddness about boating.”

“One of the Rangers used it, Mam,” Rosie explained, a small flush coming to her cheeks. “I liked the way it sounded.” Her mother let the subject go, but Rosie could hear her grumbling under her breath. 

“Are you wanting to try and get more news then?” her father asked.

“Yes,” Rosie nodded. “If Mam can keep the Dragon, then I thought maybe Bree? It’s not so far, and we need a few more supplies anyway. While we’re there, perhaps we could do some asking?”

Her father sighed. “You’re a good girl,” he allowed, “and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. If you think there might be trouble, then we’ll do some looking into it. If we’re lucky it will blow over in a few weeks’ time.”

“Maybe it will,” Rosie agreed, and that seemed to be the end of that. Later that day, however, as she sought to take a nap before opening for the evening, she sat and looked out her window at the sunlit fields and wondered to herself. 

_What dangers are lurking in the shadows?_

_And how long have we been blind to them?_


	5. Decision in Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More questions are raised and a decision is made. (See notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ!** This chapter will include some spoilers for "A Safe Haven". They're not earth-shattering spoilers for ASH since that story is more of a feel-good after the movie fix-it kind of story, but there are spoilers in regards to ships. If you don't mind, please continue. If you DO mind, please wait until ASH is finished before reading further in this story.

_Erebor – Narquelië 3018 of the Third Age_

“I hate unplanned meetings,” Fíli muttered, pausing outside of the Company’s private meeting room. “They never mean anything good.”

Merilin leaned into his shoulder, grateful yet again for being such a short woman, and let her weight rest against him for a brief moment before straightening up. She could see him shaking off the shadow, comforted as she had been by that brief contact. “Come on,” she said, shooting him a quick smile. “Maybe we shall be fortunate and it is merely a discussion about some long forgotten holiday?” At his sideways glance, filled as it was with an ironic humor, she chuckled under her breath. “Well, maybe not.”

Affection shown in his gaze, but he refrained from touching her as he reached out to open the door. “You and Kíli and your shared optimism,” he murmured with a shake of his head.

A reply hovered on the tip of her tongue only to die into silence as she caught sight of those who waited for them. Grim faces and anxious eyes stared back at them and she could feel Fíli coming to attention behind her. Her gaze scanned the table. Dwalin and Nori appeared stoic, unaffected as ever – the lack of any emotion at all a giveaway to their concern. Dori sat in an eerie stillness while Bifur picked at a bouquet of flowers in front of him. Across the table sat Bofur and Bombur – neither of whom held a hint of humor. Glóin and his son Gimli sat next to them, their grim faces lined with concern. Thorin sat at the head of the table, eyes snapping with some kind of fury, while Dís tapped her fingers on the table to his right. Kíli sat next to her, his customary cheer missing, and Tauriel, stoic as Dwalin, perched next to him.

Two chairs remained empty to Thorin’s left – there should have been three.

“Come,” Thorin nodded to both of them. “We have some matters of import to discuss.”

Fíli took Merilin’s arm and steered her towards the table. Her eyebrow swept up. “Is Marí not joining us?” 

Her cautious voice drew commiserating looks from most of the table and a headshake from Dís. “This is for family before kingdom,” the princess of Erebor stated. Her hand came up and halted Merilin’s next comment. “Fíli’s wife by law she may be, but this is not for her.”

“Her family does not need more of a reason to hate me,” Merilin cautioned, though she took her seat without further delay. “This may cause you trouble in council.” Now her gaze turned to Thorin.

“Let them flutter,” he shrugged it off. “This family has done all that it will do in the way of sacrifices and compromises in our personal lives for the sake of the kingdom. We have done our duty – we are not required to surrender everything.” Dís gave her a warm smile as Thorin spoke. His gaze held proud affection as it settled on Fíli and Merilin ducked her head as she realized it did not dim much when he turned to her. 

Fíli’s connection to Merilin had been unexpected – and unwelcome to the council of elders. As the Crown Prince, Fíli was expected to marry and have children, children who would be heirs to the throne. While his brother would do in the interim, they wanted the assurance of a fruitful lineage after the scare of Smaug and the years of wandering. It proved a quandary for the family who wanted Fíli happy. Merilin understood – she too was the daughter of a high lineage, though her line was descended from a daughter, for which she was grateful. Let her cousin worry about the family line; she would uphold its honor without the necessity or burden of its future. In the end, after a full family discussion, Fíli chose a widow, a Dwarf woman named Marí who expected no great love, merely the honor and fidelity due a lawful wife. It helped that Marí made friends with Merilin within days of entering Erebor and the two females could often be seen discussing various topics in the main dining hall.

None of the sons of Durin’s line managed to be normal.

Her eyes turned towards the youngest of them. Kíli managed to make the one choice the council hated more than her. He, too, obeyed the needs of the family by entering into a marriage agreement with the daughter of a ranking Dwarf merchant, but his wife seemed more than happy to stick with her craft. As long as Kíli remained discreet and did not dishonor her name, she let him live as he wished. It likely helped that Tauriel, like Merilin, respected the oaths of marriage too much to ever pursue anything beyond the emotional and spiritual connection she shared with Kíli. Having someone who trusted her and understood her need to wander under the stars meant more than any physical relationship ever could.

The nobles did look in askance when Merilin and Tauriel would join Marí and Arnina in the marketplace or at one of the small cafes – apparently that kind of friendship between wife and the ‘other’ female just “was not done”. 

“This meeting is for family,” Thorin repeated his sister’s words to draw everyone’s attention back to him. “It concerns the dark riders that have approached Dale and Erebor seeking information on Bilbo.” His blue eyes flashed a quick look around the table before resting on Bofur. He gave the head miner a nod and sat down.

Bofur stood up, a frown replacing his usual jollity. “People are getting restless,” he told them. “They’re talking about dark portents and evil tidings.” He shook his head as unhappy noises rose from various points around the table. “They’re not talking any kind of action yet, but they know something’s wrong.”

“Aye, and Dale reports the same,” Dwalin put in from further down the table. “King Brand’s having to deal with louder dissenters than our lot – least according to the chief of the city guard. He’s got no love for the idea of dealing with the riders either, but he’s got some open naysayers stirring the city up.” Erebor’s guard commander scowled, leaving no one in any doubt of his opinion on the subject.

“Hard to miss how the riders are focusing on two of the kings in the area and skipping out on the third,” Gimli commented. He flushed when the focus of the table swung in his direction. 

Merilin saw Tauriel stiffen in her seat and a frown build on Kíli’s face. “If these riders have any sense whatsoever, they would skirt the halls of Thranduil as you might avoid a broody dragon’s nest,” she pointed out, trying to nip any potential argument in the bud. She looked at Thorin and Dís, noting the quiet approval in their faces. “All the Free Peoples of Middle Earth have fought the Shadow, in all its varied forms, but none have done so as long as the Elves. Thranduil might be difficult to work with-“

“A right pain in the ass,” Glóin muttered and then shrugged in apology as she gave him a mock glare. “Sorry, lass.”

“As I was saying,” Merilin rolled her eyes, well accustomed to Dwarves and their ways, “he can be difficult to work with, but he would never accept any such rider near his halls. For all of your distaste of Elves-“

“Some Elves,” Fíli corrected.

“May I finish?” she demanded, eyes snapping at him. He just offered her a grin and she sighed. “I give up.”

“You are correct,” Thorin chuckled. “In what you said and in what you meant.” His gaze rested on Gimli for a moment before scanning the table once more. “Regardless of personal opinions, we have an alliance of sort with the Elves of the Greenwood, and word has been sent in warning to Thranduil as well. Brand’s son, Bard, accompanied our envoy to assure the Elves of the reality of the threat.”

Tauriel tiled her chin. “Have we received a reply?” 

He nodded. “Thranduil sent word that he believes the situation is more dire than even we supposed. He believes it is related to the attack on his halls last month.” Thorin raised a hand to quiet the questions being shot at him. “He first believed it to be a minor issue due to a lost pack of orcs and since none of them escaped he let it go. Other signs and our warnings have led him to reconsider.” He scratched at his beard. “We must send a warning to Bilbo – and see if we can determine how much further or deeper the darkness spreads.”

Dís inclined her head in agreement. “So the question becomes – who do we send?”

Bifur and Dori exchanged a look. Dori shook his head. “Some of us are too old for that kind of journey,” he sighed. 

“Couldn’t contribute anyway,” Bifur added in Khuzdul. He examined the petal of a primrose and then shrugged, popping it in his mouth. 

Merilin and Tauriel exchanged amused looks – the Elf might arrange for the flowers to be delivered, but the Ranger kept the delivery secret. Dís cleared her throat and they turned innocent wide eyes in her direction. She gave them a hard glare.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing Bilbo again,” Bofur began, but Thorin shook his head.

“I need you here,” he said, regret clear in his voice. “The same goes for Dwalin and Fíli,” the king continued as he looked around the table. His voice deepened, taking on his full authority as king and family head. “If our worst fears are realized and these signs point to something more sinister, then we must prepare. It has been a long time since the battle that decimated Gundabad’s forces – we must presume they have rebuilt just as we have done. Erebor must be prepared for war.”

Merilin felt eyes upon her and she glanced up to meet Tauriel’s gaze. Her lips pursed in thought for a long moment before she gave one slow nod. Merilin turned and lifted a brow towards Dís. Surprise lit the female Dwarf’s gaze and then calculation and understanding dawned. Not one to mull things over when she had made up her mind, the princess turned to her brother. “The girls and I shall go.”

Thorin stared at her as the rest of the table seemed to erupt in mutters and shouts. Merilin covered her mouth, trying hard not to laugh. Dís might be more than a century older than her, but Merilin was no child – and Tauriel was older than both of them. In Dís’ mind, however, as the chosen of her sons, they were her ‘girls’. Never mind that neither couple would ever be official, or even recognized beyond this small gathering – the princess might have to officially ignore them, but the mother defended them as her own.

“Dís,” Thorin started, but his sister stared him down.

“Glóin and Gimli can accompany us,” she told him, “but I have enough authority to represent you, and with the girls beside me, you cannot argue that we make an effective statement on unity.” Her eyes pierced Kíli’s when he started to speak. “You will need to help with the archers – you are their commander.” Next she looked to Nori. “You have people as well, people to be organizing to deal with any subterfuge going on inside either Erebor or Dale.” She shrugged. “Bombur’s health will not allow him to make such a journey. That leaves Glóin and Gimli – effective representatives, but both have a tendency towards hotheadedness the girls and I can offset.”

The discussion devolved into smaller groups, arguing or planning depending on those involved, but Fíli pulled Merilin over to one side of the room. “Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“Your mother is right,” she nodded. “The three of us make a good argument for standing together on such an occasion. We are proof that individuals can get along – should kingdoms and peoples do any less?”

“I don’t like it,” he frowned, but he shook his head when she opened her mouth to argue. “I don’t like it,” he repeated, “but it is a good idea. The three of you know Thorin’s mind and his views – you will make sure Erebor is well-represented.” His smile turned wry. “I just hate the thought of you traveling so far away.”

“I’ll be back,” she assured him, learning into him. “Back before you even have time to notice.”

“I doubt it,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But one can hope.”

They remained connected in silence for a long moment before Merilin pulled back. “Bring Tilda to the mountain?” she asked, fondness in her eyes as she brushed a blond lock back from his face.

“Of course,” he agreed. Then he lifted a brow at her. “Keep an eye on Mother?”

She started giggling and felt the entire room look towards them. As they began to move back to the table, she leaned towards him and whispered, “How much do you want to wager she’ll be the one keeping an eye on everyone?”

“I never bet against a sure thing.”


	6. Rivendell Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arwen takes her first steps on a path destined to change the course of many fates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arwen is the last of the new ladies to be introduced in this story...enjoy!

_Imladris – Narquelië 3018 of the Third Age_

“They are past due.”

Arwen turned from her spot overlooking the entrance of the valley to meet the sympathetic gaze of her father’s chief counsellor. A soft smile blossomed on her face as Erestor moved to stand beside her. Most people misunderstood his place in the household, believing him to be a mere seneschal who kept the household functioning and allowed his lord to concentrate on loftier things. While such duties did fall to Erestor, few people realized how much they revealed to him after writing him off as a servant – and that all of their revelations would be passed on to the Lord of Imladris for use in his counsels. 

He touched her shoulder. “And you are worried.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes moving back to the valley floor. “Gandalf’s warnings, Saruman’s betrayal, the other portents…they make me nervous.”

“Glorfindel will ride out,” he told her, “if you ask it of him.”

“I know.”

And she did. If she approached him, the golden-haired Elf would go. So too her brothers, but she would not ask. No matter her fears, her father saw more than she – if he felt the need to wait, then she would wait. “Father will know the right time.”

“And yet-,” he prompted.

“And yet,” she sighed, a helpless laugh coming to her lips. “My confidence in father’s instincts does little to assuage my heart’s anxiety.”

“Elrond will not allow harm to come to Estel if he can prevent it,” Erestor comforted her.

Quick steps behind them drew their attention before she could reply. Lindir, Erestor’s assistant, came up to them and offered a deep bow to Arwen. “Forgive my interruption, my lady,” he apologized and then turned to Erestor. “Lord Elrond requests your presence in the main courtyard.”

Arwen’s eyes darted down over the balcony to see her father, her brothers, Glorfindel, and Gandalf gathered and conversing. “It appears serious,” she noted, her gaze shifting to meet Erestor’s. “Perhaps I shall accompany you.”

The hint of a frown flickered in Lindir’s eyes, but Erestor gave a simple nod. “Of course,” he agreed, holding out an arm. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they moved off, letting Lindir trail behind them.

She remained quiet, listening as they debated who should travel out and in which direction. Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel…each of them seemed determined to ride out in search of Estel and the missing Hobbits. Each of them glanced at her as they stepped up to volunteer and chose their particular path, knowing as they did the various routes the Rangers would take to keep their movements secret or unnoticed. Erestor met her eyes and lifted a brow even as his own gaze flickered to the west. Then she realized, the one route she had not heard mentioned.

“I shall take the East Road.”

Silence descended on the courtyard as all eyes turned towards her. 

Arwen hated leaving with her father unhappy behind her, but she would not be left out of this search – or the fight to come. Mithrandir’s experience with Saruman and his surety about the Ring carried by Frodo meant this would be their one chance to end Sauron’s evil hold on Middle Earth. While her father accorded a good deal of the blame for Sauron’s continued existence to Isildur, it would be truer – in her mind – to acknowledge the fault of all of them. Granted, she had not been born at the, but…had they not moved on, knowing Isildur possessed the Ring? No one thought to search after his death – to ensure the removal of so great and evil. This despite the time before when Elves presumed evil ended forever at the breaking of Thangorodrim by the Valar. If they did not learn from their earlier error, then on whose shoulders rested such blame?

And what of the time that came after?

The great kingdoms of Men entered a slow decline due to wars, plague, and the regrouping of evil after their defeat in the War of the Last Alliance. The Istari came long after that war and it should have been a sign, but none remembered – or thought to consider – the One Ring. They thought it lost to history and best left so. Men alone did not hold that responsibility. The Valar could not have been clearer. The arrival of the Istari should have sounded a louder alarm – evil would once again begin to rise and men should not face it alone. 

Yet more and more did her people withdraw, pulling themselves behind their borders, content to live in their quiet havens while the world moved on without them. 

Throughout the centuries which followed Elves continued to participate in the fight between the forces of darkness and the free peoples of Middle Earth, but they became minor notes in the great song of the world. Angmar, the decline of the Greenwood, the wars and disasters of the Dwarves, the various wars and battles of Men – the Elves played secondary roles, or no role at all. Instead they watched, watched for the return of Sauron himself. For all their power, for all their watchfulness, they had been blind. Blind in particular to the change in Saruman who kept them blind to the truth behind the Necromancer. Thus did Sauron return once more and begin to rebuild his power.

Miracles abounded even in the dark however. They might have remained blind to the dangers of Dol Guldur longer save for the warning of Radagast the Brown. The wizard that Saruman scoffed at proved to be the one who began the awakening of the wise from their long watch. Even the wisest could not see all things.

Bilbo Baggins was proof enough of that.

The Elves’ retreat from the world worried her father and her grandmother. Their long watch turned into a long defeat – they no longer had the ability or the forces to face off against the might of Mordor. Too many of their kindred had sailed into the west. The others who remained…they faded, growing ever more remote from this world as they prepared to follow their family and friends. Even should Sauron be destroyed and his taint removed from Middle Earth, the Elves would find no victory in it. Their time grew to a close – the Age of the Elves would soon end. The race of Men would inherit all they once fought to guard and protect.

Yet…their descendants would be among those who shared in that inheritance.

Arwen shook herself free of memories. She knew her father’s heart – knew his hopes. And she planned to disappoint them. A loving daughter she might be, but one could not remain a child forever and she knew her own heart. By whatever name he chose to bear, Estel alone would share her life, carrying her heart as she carried his. If all their hopes came to pass, then Arwen would never leave Middle Earth, choosing to share a lifetime with the King of Men. She would share it with him were he to remain forever a mere Ranger of the North were it not for her father’s decree.

_“Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor.”_

She felt her lips thin as she remembered Estel’s expression when he repeated her father’s words. Love and loss, desire and hopelessness – all mingled in his eyes. He loved her, desired nothing more than to bind his life to hers, but he feared it would not happen. It led him to try and put a little distance between them. While she respected her father’s opinions, this action of his disappointed her. To make such a demand… To not consider her own wishes… Elrond Half-Elven might be renowned for his wisdom, but no one who knew him would ever argue one simple fact – his emotions got the better of him when it came to his only daughter.

No, for all her love, she did not accept her father’s choice.

A darkening shadow loomed in her mind and she focused herself back on task. She drew close to the Trollshaws, and one of the highlights of Bilbo’s journey. It might have amused her to remember his retelling of it, but the shadows called for her attention. Wind whispered in the trees and she let her senses expand, listening to all that the world around her could say. Nature itself shrank away from those shadows – five of them. An acrid tang of fear came from the wild creatures as they burrowed deeper into nests and hideaways. 

In contrast to the deepening shadows she could feel a gentle tug on her heart, a flicker of light that drew her towards voices floating through the trees. Three small figures gathered around one on the ground as a taller form, a beloved form peered towards the west with worried, calculating eyes. 

A scream – the kind that sent ice through the strongest soul – echoed in the night.

Arwen lifted a brow as she observed one of the small figures dart through the woods, searching for something with a torch lifted high. A Hobbit. She must be close. Her lips began to curve into a smile as Estel slid through the trees, also searching. Though she knew not what he sought, the opportunity to surprise him came so rarely that she could not resist, even with the shadows nearby. Her steps followed him, silent and measured, but her worry began to outpace her amusement. Estel should have felt her presence by now; he should be on his guard. That he was not…

Something worried him, something moving him beyond his caution in the wild.

Hadhafang steady in her hand, Arwen crept forward to see Estel harvesting a clutch of athelas. One of the Hobbits bore a serious wound then. Grave though the situation appeared, a little lightness would help dispel the darkness – and that could only aid in the moments to come. She placed the tip of her sword under his chin, a thread of humor winding through her mind as he froze. 

“What’s this?” she asked, letting her voice reassure him. She saw the corner of his mouth tilt up and his muscles relaxed. “A Ranger, caught off his guard?”


	7. Acceptance in Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothíriel finds the unexpected in the Riddermark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this I have caught up with myself, so updates will slow down, but I hope you find them worth the wait.

_Rohan – Hísimë 3018 of the Third Age_

_Smoke rose to the sunny blue sky above, uncaring of the screams erupting below its lazy swirls and eddies as the wind moved the air in playful swoops. On the ground, weapons flashed in the sun as blood seeped into the ground. Colors faded to dull browns and rusty reds as her steps carried her further into the village. She looked around to see a black stream flowing from the hills through village to the river, carrying death and destruction over all it touched, but instead of water, this stream seemed to be an army of hill men, the Dunlendings. Something seemed to shadow them, some darker force impelling them onwards, but it remained hidden._

_Then a spark, a glimmer of light drew her attention and the sound around her died to nothingness._

_A child – the mere wisp of a girl about ten years of age – sheltered under an overturned wagon. Her features remained shadowed, preventing any kind of recognition, but rather she seemed a symbol of the village as a whole. The girl seemed to gather herself to move, to try and escape into the tall grasslands beyond the village._

_“Do not move!”_

_The scream went unanswered as the girl darted out, sprinting for the nearest field. A howl of triumph shattered the silence. Terror lent speed to the girl’s steps, but it made her clumsy as well. She tripped, falling to the ground. Dark men surrounded her as she tried to struggle to her feet. Hard hands, hands coated with blood, reached out to grasp, to tear, to violate, to destroy._

Lothíriel sat up in bed, her own shriek of denial echoing the girl’s screams. 

“My lady!” 

Her door burst open and three figures barreled in, each bearing a threshing flail. Eadmund and his sons, Cerdic and Wulfric, scanned the room before lowering their weapons. They stared at her for a long moment before Eadmund looked over his shoulder. “Ætta!” 

His wife bustled in, her footsteps taking her straight to the still-shaken Lothíriel. “My lady?” Her voice held a note of inquiry as she reached a calloused hand to tuck a lock of red-gold hair behind Lothíriel’s ear. “Bad dream?”

Lothíriel shook her head and looked up to meet Eadmund’s gaze, a single tear tracing a line down her cheek. “They are coming.”

Eadmund took a deep breath before turning to his eldest son. “Go, Cerdic, tell the elders to gather the village in the square. Let them know that our _spákona_ has given warning.” His eyes shifted to Wulfric. “You and I will start putting things in order here.” Wulfric nodded and left the room. A thought seemed to occur to him and he glanced at Cerdic once more. “Along the way, you best give warning to Æmma and Cwen’s families.”

“Yes, Da,” Cerdic agreed, appreciation in his eyes as he nodded to his father.

“Go on then,” the older man tilted his head to the door. “Let the girls’ families know they can join ours for the journey to the caves if they wish.”

Cerdic left the room with a rapid stride and his father followed him, letting Ætta do her best to help Lothíriel prepare for the day’s troubles. 

For her part, Lothíriel could only wonder at the acceptance of the family. Only her brothers had ever been so quick to take her word on approaching danger. No one else, not even those she grew up with, could say the same. Too many times she had been met with suspicion and distrust – often accompanied by murmurs of witchcraft or fouler arts. To find a family who accepted her abilities as a gift had been astonishing enough to the young woman, but then came the village…

Lothíriel had met the members of this village when she rode in and, without stopping to speak to or acknowledge anyone, continued straight to the river. Her quick actions that day saved the village children from a flash flood. None of the parents thought twice about letting their children swim on that hot, sunny day, but further upriver, beyond sight of the village a sudden rainstorm had swollen the river’s waters and sent them cascading towards the unsuspecting villagers. When she started hauling children out of the water, outraged parents protested – until she told them of the coming disaster. 

They did not believe her.

Ætta later told her they thought her agitation and passion meant she was quite mad as a matter of fact. When asked why they went along with her, the farm woman laughed. “Better to go along with the harmless whim of a madwoman long enough to get her to leave. To argue with the mad is to be one of them.”

When all of the children were out of the water, Lothíriel continued to wave people up the banks and back towards the village. By now the entire population seemed to be watching her, some shaking their heads and others pulling their children away.

Then came the floodwaters. 

To say the villagers were shocked would have been an understatement.

She still felt awe flow through her at how the village embraced her instead of casting her out. They named her one of their own, giving her the title of _spákona_ , apparently the Rohirric name for a prophetess, and asking her advice. When she warned them about the limits of her ability, they shrugged. 

“My lady, it is not ours to ask why a gift is this or it is that,” the village chief, Sigeweard, informed her. “We shall be grateful for any warning you choose to give. If you receive no other warning than that which brought you to us, we will still forever be in your debt. You have saved our children, our future.” He looked around the village, gesturing at the people gathered before them. “You will always have a place with us.”

Eadmund and Ætta took her into their home as they possessed a spare room with its own door. The room had belonged to Ætta’s mother before her death the previous spring. The woman possessed a strong steak of independence, but failing health required her to live with family, so Eadmund created a second door for the hut to entice her to accept their invitation. Now they let Lothíriel use the room and she attempted to repay them by helping Ætta around the house. During her months with them, she learned much of Rohirric customs and society.

It also helped her with the language – at least they no longer looked so amused at her accent.

Lothíriel gave herself a good shake and forced herself to focus on the here and now. They had been receiving messages of various attacks against different places throughout the Riddermark, and each time the fear and anxiety would increase another notch. People began to watch her for any sign of trouble and she hated being unable to give them an answer either way. Now…now she knew the trouble waited on the horizon and it would come like the floodwaters, with her warning being the only sign. The villagers needed to evacuate – and not to the caves. If her vision held true, the coming attack would leave nothing for them to return to – and winter was coming. No, this evacuation would have to be much more long term. They would need to be prepared to be gone for months – at least until spring.

The family gathered in the village square within the hour. Cerdic had done his work well – it looked like most of the village waited for them. Lothíriel squared her shoulders and approached Sigeweard. He gave her a shrewd look. “We must go, my lady?”

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft, but carrying to the edge of the crowd. “And not to the caves.” Mutters and exclamations filled the air and she stiffened, forcing her hands and voice to steady. “If you return too soon, there will be nothing left to see you through the winter. Those who are coming intend to destroy everything. If you would survive as a village, then you must leave your home until spring heralds a rebirth.”

Sigeweard turned to the elders and they spoke amongst one another for several minutes. Lothíriel waited, hoping they would listen and expecting them to disagree. 

Ætta stepped up beside her. “Are you sure?” the farm woman asked, her gaze calm and understanding. When Lothíriel nodded, Ætta turned and gestured towards Eadmund. “Then we shall take the wagon. It won’t take long for us to be ready to go.”

“Agreed,” Sigeweard commented as he joined them. He patted Lothíriel’s shoulder. “We thank you for the warning, my lady,” he told her. “We have asked for your advice and only a fool ignores a _spákona’s_ visions.” He turned to the square. “The elders have decided. We shall make our way to Helm’s Deep.” The crowd murmured, but quieted as he raised a hand. “I know Edoras is closer, but we do not trust the stories we have heard of the king’s advisor. While our loyalties belong to Théoden, we must consider what is best for our people. All of you – return home and prepare to leave at first light tomorrow.” His voice took on a hard note. “Any who remain behind do so against the advice of the elders and we will not be held accountable for their fates.” His eyes shifted to Lothíriel for a moment. “And neither shall the _spákona_ – she has given us fair warning. Our fates are now our own.”

Lothíriel could only watch in amazement as the entire village seemed to leap into action. Everyone scattered to pack for their flight. Widows and the elderly received aid from the second sons and daughters of other families while smaller households shared wagons and supplies. The elders of the village prepared their own families and then visited every household to make sure people had the help they needed. Sigeweard possessed two wagons, one he used for his family, but the other he turned over to be used to transport the sick and infirm among them. 

When the next morning dawned, the entire village followed their leaders on the long march towards the great fortress of Rohan.

Two days into their journey a cry went up from the men on patrol. Everyone grew tense, wondering what might be happening, but then word spread through the caravan – the patrol had spotted men on horseback headed towards them. It looked to be a large force, which could only mean Riders. People relaxed, laughing as the procession came to a stop. The Riders would stop them, questioning their movement, so they might as well go ahead and stop now. It was about time for a break anyway.

Lothíriel waited with the elders, Sigeweard in the lead, as the Riders drew closer. She felt something hovering over her like a wave waiting to crest and flow up the beach. It seemed to grow stronger as the Riders rode up to them. Her eyes began to scan the men, looking for who or what pulled at her senses. What did it mean? She had never felt something like this before. What change would it bring?

“Who is leader of these people?” A tall rider separated himself from the company and rode up to the small group of elders. His helmet, decorated with a tail of white horsehair, encased his face and hid most of his features – except for his eyes. Light brown eyes swept over the train of people before focusing on the leaders, looking over each face. 

Lothíriel’s breath caught as his eyes met hers. _Here_ , her mind whispered, _here is the reason you came to Rohan._ Light brown eyes locked with her silver gray and lingered, suspicion melting into bewilderment as whatever pulled at her seemed to reach out to him. She could not turn away, even as she felt the elders around her stirring.

“I am Sigeweard,” the village chief replied, drawing the Rider’s attention, “chief elder of the village. Which captain do I have the honor to address?”

The Rider let his gaze return to Lothíriel for a moment, then, with a swift motion, he dismounted. “I am Éomer, son of Éomund.”


	8. Answers in Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie gets some answers in Bree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am mixing book canon, movie canon, and my own imagination for this story. This chapter makes some allusions to "A Safe Haven", so there may be some points of confusion.

_Bree – Hísimë 3018 of the Third Age_

“How do they live this way?” Rosie murmured to her father as they made their way down the main street of town. “All these buildings clustered together and…looming over them.”

“Different folks, Rosie-lass.” Her father smiled and patted her shoulder. “They’ve had different experiences and different needs. Inn keepers and tavern owners know that better than most. As long as they’re doing their best, we shouldn’t be judging them.” He chuckled. “Might not be the life we would want, but Hobbit’s are gardeners at heart. And all the world can’t be gardeners or who would do the mining?”

She gave a small laugh. Tolman Cotton was all Hobbit, but he preferred the metal tools fashioned by Dwarves. He would travel more than any Hobbit – save the Tooks and Bilbo Baggins – in order to purchase a high quality metal tool. It might be more expensive, but as he took pains to point out – “Dwarf tools break less and last longer. I’m getting a bargain in the end.”

Most of all – he believed in letting people be people with all their differences.

“Ah!” Tolman exclaimed. “There we are – the Inn of the Prancing Pony. We’ll get rooms there and then we can see about buying supplies and asking questions.”

The two Hobbits made their way across the down the street and entered the quiet building. It seemed to be a moment between rushes, so Rosie stood back and watched as her father approached a short fat man with a bald head and a red face. His white apron held a day’s worth of work stains, but only gathered more as he wiped his hands before turning a curious look on the pair of them. 

“Well now!” he exclaimed. “Good afternoon, sir, young miss! Welcome to the Pony.” His eyes scanned the room before returning to them. “I’m Barliman Butterbur, and what may you be wanting?”

“Lodging for the night,” Tolman replied. “Connected rooms if you have them for my daughter and me.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” the innkeeper nodded, his smile turning bemused. “You’re Hobbits from the Shire then?”

“Yes,” Tolman frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh no, little master, no! No problems!” Butterbur seemed to think over something as he wrung his hands. 

“What is it, Mr. Butterbur?” Rosie asked, a frown flickering over her face at his nerves.

“It’s just…odd, it is,” he replied, leaning forward a bit in emphasis. “Folks from the Shire don’t come often to Bree, and yet in under a month I’ve seen a good half dozen of you now and that last set! Oh, but they did need looking after!” He shook his head and let his voice drop lower, like a man sharing a confidence. “Four of them there were, and they came looking for…hmm…now bless me, who were they looking for?” His eyes grew a bit distant for a moment and Rosie restrained her desire to shake him. Then he perked back up. “Oh, yes, that’s right! They came looking for that wizard chap, Gandalf. Nice enough fellow, if a little too in and out, here and gone again for my tastes.”

“And did they find the Wizard?” Rosie prompted.

“Who? Oh, the Hobbits…no, no, we’d seen no signs of the old fellow for months.”

Rosie and her father exchanged concerned glances. “Then what did they do?”

“Who?”

“The four Hobbits,” Rosie replied, drawing on all of the patience she could scrounge up. If she could handle a tavern full of less than sober Hobbits, she could handle one befuddled Man. “If they didn’t find Gandalf, then what did they do?”

“Hmm? Oh, they went off with that Ranger, Strider I think they called him.” Butterbur’s face wrinkled in a frown. “We call him Longshanks more than anything else around here. He’s a questionable sort, like all Rangers, but they wouldn’t hear any warnings – off they went down the road.”

Another customer walked in and Butterbur stirred himself into motion. “Oh, goodness! Here you are wanting rooms and here I am holding you up. Nob!” He glanced over his shoulder towards the kitchen before looking back at them. “Nob’ll take you to your rooms – a nice pair of Hobbit-sized rooms that look out to the back garden. They should suit you quite well.” He turned. “Nob!”

It took a few more minutes of confusion and some loud directions, but the Cottons were finally shown to their rooms. They discussed their next actions for a bit before Rosie put her foot down. “No,” she told her father in a voice filled with conviction. “We came to find some answers, and I am not leaving without them.”

“You always were a stubborn one,” he sighed. “Alright then, we shall try to find a Ranger and ask him, but we leave for home in the morning.”

“Yes, Da.”

The two Hobbits made their way through town, purchasing supplies and arranging for deliveries while keeping an eye out for any of the Rangers. Rosie couldn’t quite understand why people looked down on them – the Rangers kept people safe, didn’t they realize that? Where would they all be without them? 

Her mind flickered back in time, back to when she was still quite young. A hard, cruel winter struck and danger came to the Shire. She, along with seven other children, escaped most of it thanks to the efforts of old Bilbo Baggins. More to the current point of her thoughts, however, she remembered the other person who helped take care of them on the long journey – a Ranger everyone called ‘Singer’. She had another name, but Rosie could not bring it to mind at the moment.

The evening mealtime came around and Rosie accompanied her father to the main room. It seemed louder and more raucous than the worst nights at the Dragon. She winced at the noise and sidled closer to her father as she spotted some of the people already in the room. Rough and dangerous they looked – much like the ruffians her maiden aunts would often mutter about.

“Forgive me,” a soft voice drew their attention.

Rosie looked around and then looked up. A tall Ranger stood behind them, a small smile softening the hard lines of his face. The concern in his eyes drew a smile to her face.

He nodded at them. “Forgive me,” he repeated, “but I thought perhaps you might join me for dinner?” His hand gestured towards an empty table in the back. “You would do me the great favor of sparing me a solitary meal and it would be…” His voice trailed off as he glanced around the room before refocusing on them. “It would likely be less troublesome for a party of three.”

Rosie’s smile deepened and her father sketched a short bow. “Lead on if you would, sir,” Tolman replied. “We would enjoy sharing some company over dinner.” He took Rosie’s arm. “And less trouble is just as welcome.”

The Hobbits followed the Ranger back to the empty table where the two males made sure to tuck Rosie into the corner. She bit back a smile at the overprotective instincts. 

“I am Tolman Cotton,” her father began. “And this is my daughter Rosie.” She gave the Ranger a smile, to which he returned a nod, but she let it pass. The Rangers always did have a somber mien – no reason to get upset about summer being summer as the saying went. “How may we call you?” Tolman continued.

“Around these parts they call me Talvas,” the Ranger replied, “but you may call me Halbarad, if you prefer.”

“Why ‘Talvas’?” she asked, a small frown furrowing her brow over the odd word.

“It means ‘shield’,” he offered. “I believe they find me too cold for their liking.” The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Perhaps I am, but then…they are quite the questionable sort.”

“Indeed they are,” her father chuckled. “Indeed they are.”

The barmaid came around and everyone placed their orders. Halbarad waited until she moved away before leaning back and letting his gaze move from Tolman to Rosie and back. “What brings the owner of the Green Dragon to Bree?” Tolman’s eyebrows went up in surprise which managed to draw a soft chuckle from the sober-faced Ranger. “I am not unfamiliar with the Shire,” he explained. “Though I am more familiar with the North Farthing than anywhere else. And your establishment is known for its ale.” The humor in his gaze deepened. “Many a Dwarf caravan has commented on it.”

“Ah,” Tolman flushed. “Yes, well, the Dragon pulls a good serving or two I suppose.” 

Rosie suppressed a giggle at her father’s expression, trapped between pride and humility. Halbarad glanced at her, one eye closing in a discreet wink, and she had to look down to avoid breaking into laughter. When she pulled herself back under control, she glanced back up to find her father giving her a wry glare. “It was funny,” she shrugged. “And the Dwarves _do_ like Dragon ale.”

“Especially your Dwarves,” he shook his head. He turned back to the Ranger. “To answer your question though, we’ve come for supplies and to find one of you.”

“Is there a problem in the Shire?” Halbarad sat up, humor bleeding out of him and leaving an intensity in his gaze that might have frightened some of the more timid Hobbits. Rosie did not feel frightened, but protected. To know that others felt that kind of concern for her homeland caused a great deal of relief. The Hobbits – a peace-loving and unwarlike people – had friends ready to protect them. 

Even when some Hobbits treated them like unwelcome strangers.

“No, no,” her father reassured him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“We do not believe,” Rosie amended.

Halbarad focused on her. “Tell me.” He tilted his head and his lips twitched. “If you please, miss?”

“We appreciate the concern,” she replied, patting his arm, “so I can overlook a small lapse of manners.” Now his lips curved into that ghost of a smile once more. Satisfied, she took a moment to put her thoughts in order. “It’s about some friends of mine,” she began and then laid out her concern for Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin. It did not take long, but as she spoke she could see recognition sparking in Halbarad’s eyes. Her voice trailed off and she stared at him. “You know something,” she finished. “I can see that you do.”

“I do,” he offered a nod in reply. He folded his hands on the table and bowed his head. The table sat in silence for several long minutes before he looked back up. “There are some things I can tell you, but others would be unwise.” His eyes scanned the room. “Your friends left Bree with my captain,” he continued. “He planned to take them to a place of safety with the Elves.” 

The two Hobbits smiled and started to relax, but Rosie straightened back up when the Ranger remained still. “And?” she prompted. He lifted a brow at her and she gave him her best barkeep stare. “There’s something else.”

“You are perceptive,” he complimented her.

“I deal with a room full of drunken Hobbits on a regular basis,” she informed him. “Not to mention the occasional party of Dwarves who are a bit too fond of ale. I know when a story is missing its pieces.”

He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “There are others searching for them,” he told the two Hobbits. Rosie’s eyes widened and then narrowed, but the Ranger continued before she could speak. “One of them has attracted the attention of unfriendly forces.”

Her father frowned. “You mean-,”

“Da,” Rosie interrupted in a quiet tone. Her father gave her a curious look and she shook her head. “If a Ranger will not name the one being hunted, then we should not either.” Tolman frowned and sat back, a thoughtful look on his face. She looked back towards Halbarad, who gave her a measuring look in returned. One corner of her mouth tilted up in a crooked smile. “I travelled with a Ranger as a child.”

Enlightenment entered his countenance. “Ah, you are one of Erebor’s Hobbits then,” he stated, an actual smile flickering over his face. 

“Is that what they call us?” she huffed. Then she shook her head. “I suppose so.” The humor died away and she straightened. “Nothing is wrong in the Shire,” she repeated, “but Black Riders have been seen there, asking for…certain persons.”

His lips thinned. “They should not be back,” he told her. “Now that…certain persons have left, they will follow.” His brow knotted in concentration. “Still, it would be better for your folk to have more guards and watchful eyes. Their presence will leave a mark, drawing other things to you.” 

“We’ve only the Bounders,” Tolman began.

“And a link to the Dwarves,” Rosie finished. 

Her father sighed. “Lass, we can’t fix everything,” he said. “And even if you send your request, if the Shire’s having such problems, do you not think they will be as well?”

“We have to try, Da.” Her eyes flashed. “I’ll not let our home be in danger if I have a chance to prevent it.”

Halbarad gave her an approving look. “Let the Dwarves know of your troubles,” he recommended. “It may be that trouble is coming to all lands and an alliance would do you a great deal better than trying to stand alone.”

“And what could we offer any alliance?” Tolman demanded.

“Food,” Rosie told him. Both of the males turned to her and she shrugged. “We might not have much in the way of weapons or things for war, but we can easily feed an army for a good bit if it can keep the enemy out of the fields.”

“You have a feel for this kind of thing, Miss,” the Ranger commented.

She ducked her head, a flush rising to her cheeks. “It only makes sense, doesn’t it?” she shrugged. “Armies have to eat.”

“They do.” His thoughtful gaze continued to rest on her face. 

“Dwarves,” Tolman sighed and shook his head. “It’s all due to her taking up with Dwarves.” A reluctant smile crept over his face. “Don’t know what the world is coming to when good, sensible Hobbits start talking about armies and wars with such ease, but sure enough my girl’s got to be right in the middle of it.”

Halbarad chuckled, and Rosie felt hope rising up in her. Danger might be rising in the wide world around them, but as long as they could still laugh and find a light in the future, then they could still stand against the darkness. They could make it through the storm gathering on the horizon.

And they could keep home safe for the travelers to return to when all was said and done.


End file.
